Kra’tu Nystrom.
This is a name. The name of a minor nobleman who grew up on the planet of Concord Dawn. The name of a feckless idiot with no aspirations of greatness. The name of one who, if not for the intervention of Kad Ha’rangir, all-seeing creator of tests and trials, might have wasted his life as nothing more than the honorless protector of a child who fancies herself a duchess. A name that was once mine.
I am Mando’kad, and I am a Mandalorian.
As I am forced to leave this final message in the care of a race who are unable to speak or read our hallowed language, I can only assume that you who read this stand among my brothers and sister and thus lack any need for me to recite the history that made us who and what we are.
But if by some infinitesimal chance the beings to whom I have entrusted this missive have learned to read it, I will tell you our tale in brief.
We hail from a sector known as Mandalorian Space in the Outer Rim of the galaxy, countless light-years from the wild space in which this planet resides. Our people are comprised of many different species, brought together by a common language (Mando’a) and traditions that go back more than 7,000 years, foremost of which is the wearing of beskar’gam, our sacred battle armor.
We are, above and beyond all other things, warriors. To a Mandalorian, a life spent in the pursuit of honor and glory is the only life worth living, and this simple truth is what makes us strong. Our creed is the Resol’nare, the Six Actions (raising the young the Mandalorian way, wearing beskar’gam, defending one’s self and family, supporting one’s clan, speaking Mando’a, and owing fealty to the leader of the clans) that keep us united. Our supreme leader, the one who best represents all that for which we stand, is given the title of Mand'alor.
In recent years, our people have become fractured and divided. Clans turned upon one another, the 6 Actions were forsaken, and now a pretender sits upon the throne of our homeworld, a pretender named Satine Kryze, leader of the so-called “New Mandalorians,” a pacifist who would see our warrior heritage consigned to eternal darkness. A pacifist that I once followed.
To make matters worse, the faction to which I now belong, the True Mandalorians who have remembered our heritage and committed ourselves body and soul to restoring our people, was betrayed from within. Tor Vizsla, a spineless dog who believed only in the exploitation of the weak by the strong, formed a splinter group known as the Death Watch, craven jackals who would kill babies in their beds if such an act would bring victory. As if ANY victory could be called such without honor!
The True Mandalorians were attacked by the New Mandalorians and their allies in the Galactic Republic, an order of sorcerers known as the Jedi. Our numbers were decimated. Tor Vizsla was later slain by one of our own, a bounty hunter named Jango Fett.
Then, one glorious day only 2 decades ago, our salvation came in the form of Jin Cabura. Like Mandalore the Uniter before him, this great warrior secretly called the best and brightest of our people to his side, reforming the True Mandalorians into a fighting force more than equal to what we had been before. His tenacity in battle, coupled with his almost miraculous lack of any battlefield injuries, prompted the Faithful to name him Mand’alor Darasuum, Mandalore the Eternal.
Finally, we come to my part of the tale. From childhood, I was a skilled martial artist and swordsman, though I practiced these skills for the sake of my health rather than any desire to use them. I joined the Mandalorian Guard, and was eventually chosen to protect Satine herself as one of her Royal Guardsmen.
I had a position of power, light responsibilities, more money than I could ever spend, and yet I was not satisfied. I became increasingly aware of how utterly wasted my skills were as a Guardsman, Satine’s programs of pacifism making the use of violence all but forbidden. I might have passed my entire life in such ennui if not for the dreams I would soon have.
The first came in my sleep, after yet another day of pointless training in nonlethal methods of combat. Mandalore the First, leader of the race that served as our Progenitors, told me to make a pilgrimage to Shogun, then as now the planet of prophecy, promising me that the answers I sought would be made clear to me.
Following his orders, I located a small cave near the Tuang Mountains and spent the next 6 days in fasting, meditation, and prayer. On the 7th day, I had a vision of Mandalore the Ultimate, the great Shadow Father of all the clans. He told me that my Mandalorian spirit was crying out to me, begging me to return to the truth path. I spent several long months searching out those who could lead me back to the ways of our people, and finally I found the True Mandalorians. Jin Cabura saw something in me that day, and welcomed me into the fold.
My gratitude for this man knew no bounds, and I threw myself into the training, determined to justify his faith in me. My skill with the beskad, a curved saber of Mandalorian iron, was unmatched, and my ferocity and devotion were a match for any. Thus, when my training was completed and I donned my beskar’gam for the first time, Mandalore the Eternal named me Mando’kad, the Sword of Mandalore.
My time grows short, so I shall spare you the details of the next few years. My most recent mission was supposed to be one purely of reconnaissance, a search for resources in the depths of Wild Space. My spaceship was struck by a small asteroid, and I crashed landed on this verdant planet, the atmosphere of which is oxygen-rich and perfectly breathable. I do not recall exactly how long I have been here, but it cannot be less than 3 weeks.
The native race of this planet is comprised of small, colorful equines who speak a language of brays, clicks, and whinnies. I have thus far identified 3 subspecies: a race with wings capable of flight, a race with horns capable of channeling some form of energy for a variety of effects, and a race with neither wings nor horns that seem to be possessed of greater physical capabilities than the other two. I have also noticed that the adults and some of the children have some sort of tattoo upon their flanks. What these markings signify, I cannot begin to guess.
As far as I have been able to determine, I was dragged from the wreckage of my ship and taken to a city built into a range of mountains for medical attention. My rescuer was a large, red-colored equine of the hornless and wingless variety, with an apple-shaped mark and some sort of harness around its neck.
Their healers, most of whom are of the horned variety of equines, have done a seemingly excellent job of repairing my flesh and mending my bones, if the sensors in my helmet are correct in their readings. The food they have brought me, though containing a great deal of indigestible cellulose, has thus far met all my nutritional requirements.
In spite of this, I continue on the path toward death. The pain behind my eyeballs is bad enough to make me want to vomit. When I urinate, the color is scarlet. I choke no matter how thoroughly I chew my food before swallowing. The healers have, I believe, tried several times to explain what is wrong with me, but I cannot understand them.
Just hours ago, I was visited by two members of a 4th equine subspecies, one much taller than the others, and that possesses both horn and wings, as well as the strength of the 3rd variety. One with a coat of snow-white fur, and mane that fluttered and flowed like an aurora, the other a shade of dark blue with a mane the color of the night sky with all its stars. I could not understand their words, but neither could I miss the soothing, almost apologetic tone of their voices.
I sat at the desk next to the bed in the room they’d kept me, and absently began to trace my finger along the surface in an imitation of writing. To my great surprise, one of them gave an order to one of the nearby guards, who returned with this empty journal and writing utensils!
I was initially thunderstruck that a quadrupedal race even had a written language, but in retrospect it is not so surprising, given what I have seen the horned variety to be capable of.
To the race that has seen fit to care for me, I thank you. Your kindness will not go unrewarded by my fellows in the True Mandalorians. Merely direct them to the final resting place of my body and present this book to them, and"
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Celestia and Luna entered the small hospital room where the alien had been kept. It sat slumped forward at the desk.
“Tia,” said Luna softly, “Is it - ?”
“It is dead,” said Celestia, “Its internal organs were simply too different from our own. The healers could not discern how to properly repair them.”
The co-rulers of Equestria stood for a long time in silence. Finally, Luna asked, “What do we do now?”
“The creature’s ship will be studied by our scientists,” said Celestia, “Its body will be buried secretly on the outskirts of Canterlot, where no one will ever find it. The journal will be sent to Twilight Sparkle. If anyone can devise a way of translating the creature’s final words, it is her.”
“What if more of its kind come searching for it?” asked Luna, “What if they blame us for its death?”
“Let us hope that that day never comes,” said Celestia, “and if it does, let us hope that we are prepared.”
Author's Note
This is my first MLP fanfiction, my first Star Wars fanfiction, and the first fanfiction I've written in a LONG time, so don't be afraid to tell me how bad it is.